


you couldn't hit on the president of the United States, could you?

by elainebarrish



Category: Political Animals, Political Lesbians
Genre: F/F, I have no idea how long it is even, IDK I wrote this in like a day, bc google docs mobile doesn't have a word count so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're part of the elite now, the few that she deigns to trust, and that knowledge ripples across your skin, across your consciousness, and you feel as though you're floating, knowing that this woman wants you here, that you're trusted and treasured and that she probably loves you, or she knows she could."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you couldn't hit on the president of the United States, could you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bedfordfalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bedfordfalls/gifts).



> I have no idea what this is I'm so sorry.

You don't know what you're doing, you realise, again, as you sit down next to the Secretary of State. You often seem to be lost at the moment, floating somewhere that doesn't have space for nasty articles for this woman that you've come to respect, this woman that you suddenly want to help.

You don't know what you're doing as you're on a plane to France, going to Paris with the most intimidating woman you've ever met, the most awe-inspiring person you've ever befriended. You realise, this time, that there's something growing within you, something that you should stop but that has already started, a feeling that has already taken root and blossomed within you, this warm feeling that rises through your chest as she turns to you with a smile, as she guides you into the town car with a light hand on your lower back.

She's imposing as she sweeps place to place, but she always turns to you with a smile, with a dry comment or two that you can't resist laughing at, and in those confusing days of panic you feel like so much more than just her pet reporter, you feel like a friend, a confidante. You still wish for more.

It's only when you're home, tucked away in your shiny new empty apartment, laying in a bed that had been in storage for several years, that you realise what she's means to you. That you're somehow going to have to write about what you've experienced, what happened in Paris. How do you explain that nothing happened but you felt closer to her than you ever felt to Alex, than you ever really felt to anyone. You miss her, you realise, laying in your own bed that you're not used to, and it's not long until you're surfing through gossip sites, browsing through HQ pictures of the two of you.

There's a lot of them, you have to admit, and you wonder if your mother has seen any of this, if she's noticed that the woman who everyone is sure will be the first female president, has taken you under her wing. You can't stop your mind from straying to wondering if friends is where it ends for her, if friends is all she wants. You know that whatever she asks of you you'll give her, that you're under her spell completely and utterly, whether she knows it or not. You feel like she doesn't know, but you also know that she's smarter than anyone has ever given her credit for. She's formidable, and a lot of people forget that as she tries to play nice to please those she can't just bulldoze through with her iron will.

She's won and surely this means you're winning too, this article you basically wrote a year ago all ready to go with quotes from her inserted in all the right places, quotes that you never would have gotten if it wasn't for this friendship that the two of you had managed to cultivate, had managed to produce somehow during long months travelling all around the US. This friendship that you certainly couldn't change now, you couldn't hit on the president of the United States, could you? You've already decided no when she sweeps you along to some private party she's having, in her house where you hadn't been since Doug's engagement party, and all the family is there. And for once they don't look angered by your presence, though Elaine's mother still has time to call you a lesbian again. You're starting to wonder if she's right, knowing what you do now, knowing that how you feel for Elaine is nothing else you've ever experienced. You really didn't need to have a sexuality crisis on top of everything else.

People are leaving and you're thinking about finding your coat when she appears next to you, suddenly there and larger than life, grinning down at you. You always forget how tall she is whenever she's not stood next to you. "Madam President," you can't help yourself, you're on your fourth glass of champagne and she looks radiant, beautiful.  
"Hmm I like it when you say it," she smiles, tipsy enough that her voice is low and she sounds typically seductive, the way that you always find her voice sounds, and you wonder if other people feel the same way, if she talks to everyone like that. You tell yourself that she does, that you're no different to anyone else, that you should stop getting your hopes up. But you look at her and she's grinning at you, and she looks so happy you can't help but want to draw her into a hug, you want to celebrate with her, you want to be part of this, you want to feel welcome.  
"Say it again," she tells you, and something in your tummy flutters.  
"Madam president," you drawl, drawing the letters out on purpose, grinning at her.  
Her gaze changes into something more focused, something you feel intensely as you look up into her face, as she looks at nothing but you. It's powerful and you know you'll never get used to it, never get used to being at the centre of her attention. There are people all around you but she doesn't seem to care, doesn't seem to notice anything but you, and she's still smiling but it's changed to something else, something that turns the butterflies in your stomach into a whirlwind.  
"If I'm the president then you have to do as I say, right?" her voice is still seductive, and you're nodding before you've even fully thought about what she said, before you can even wonder what she means, and you're suddenly being pulled out the room, holding hands with this woman that you've loved for such a long time, being led up some stairs into a huge bedroom. You're looking at her and your heart is pounding, and you can practically see her pulse jumping in her throat.  
"I hope I haven't misunderstood," she murmurs, and you're stepping forwards to reassure her, grin already firmly back in place, because of course this was what you wanted when you agreed to come to this private party, this party where the only people that could have seen you come upstairs together were people she trusted more than anyone else in the world.

You're part of the elite now, the few that she deigns to trust, and that knowledge ripples across your skin, across your consciousness, and you feel as though you're floating, knowing that this woman wants you here, that you're trusted and treasured and that she probably loves you, or she knows she could. She kisses you and you melt, and you feel like you've waited your whole life for this, your whole life to kiss someone with the conviction that she's kissing you with now.

The morning will be harder, facing the world and her family and your family and your jobs and the fact that you've been writing about the woman you're in love with for months. But you also both know that you're in it together, and this is just the result of two years of waiting for the right time.


End file.
